


Choice

by dhyanshiva



Category: Raazi (2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhyanshiva/pseuds/dhyanshiva
Summary: Is it possible to discern between choice and compulsion? Sehmat has only moments to decide.
Relationships: Sehmat Khan and Iqbal Syed
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	Choice

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for team Raazi, for the masterpiece they gifted us - it's in celebration of its second anniversary.
> 
> Meghna Gulzar and Bhavani Iyer wrote with compassion, awareness and a truckload of sense and really, the last line of this piece is the crux of Sehmat's journey.
> 
> Please note, this piece is based entirely on the manner in which they've been depicted in the film. I have not read the book "Calling Sehmat" by Harinder Sikka, on which Raazi is based.
> 
> Tara's edits on Iqbal and Sehmat (@ bolly ish on Instagram) helped pull this together when inspiration deserted me for a moment and I listened to Arijit Singh's 'Ae Watan' as I wrote.
> 
> Quote Inspiration:  
> "One can live for years sometimes without living at all, and then all life comes crowding into one single hour."  
> \- Oscar Wilde
> 
> Thank you, Sehmat Khan.

Sehmat emerged from Munira’s room just in time to see Iqbal enter theirs. She stood there for a moment, confused. There was a strange expression on his face, a combination of emotions that she couldn’t name. His strides were rapid, as if he couldn’t get there soon enough. His shoulders were hunched, fist clenched to the extent that his knuckles had gone deathly pale. What could possibly be wrong? Immediately, her gaze shifted to the room he’d just left. _Abdul’s_. And he’d emerged, like this, alone. Clearly, it wasn’t an argument with someone that had troubled him so. Unease began to crawl through her, unbidden, and she followed her husband, needing to find out what had him so off kilter.

She pushed open the door of their bedroom and felt on edge immediately. There was something about her surroundings that just didn’t feel the same. Within seconds, her guard was back up and her gaze darted around the vast space. Try as she might, Sehmat couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in danger. And no, it wasn’t a residual paranoia from her interaction with Bakshi Sir, which admittedly, had thrown her off momentarily. No, this was something familiar yet foreign. She couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding and dread but couldn’t pinpoint why. This space was something of a sanctuary from the rest of the household, the rest of the family but she’d never felt more afraid, than in this moment. She could hear water running behind the locked door but chose not to dwell on it. Instead, her gaze fell on something completely out of the ordinary, something unusual, and with renewed trepidation, she stepped forward.

Iqbal’s wallet lay open on the bed and she picked it up, her hand shaking. There, pinned to her photograph was a silver bauble. She removed it to take a closer look and nearly dropped it the very next moment. It was a piece of her anklet. Immediately, the pieces of this strange puzzle fell into place. She hadn’t thought anything of it, when she’d slipped off that ladder and now, she was paying the price for ignoring a major red flag. In her haste, she’d given herself away and now, she had to act, immediately. Sehmat snapped out of her recollection to the sound of running water and a sense of déjà vu swept over her. It was eerily similar to the crisis with Abdul, but this was no time to draw any further parallels. The speed with which she’d drawn Iqbal’s gun – to point _at_ him - didn’t alarm her, not anymore. She couldn’t allow it to – after all, this was her choice.

When Abbu had told her of the road ahead, she’d been shocked, of course. That emotion was amplified when he tried to dissuade her, told her not to go ahead with this. He’d presented her with a choice. But that was an illusion, really. When Sehmat had allayed his fears, she’d meant every single word. When he himself had put their nation first, why couldn’t Sehmat? She had always prided herself on being her father’s daughter. The journey she’d embarked on seemed to have been her fate and she embraced it as best she could. In fact, at this moment, she recalled Iqbal’s fath – _no_ , Major General Syed’s praise. How she could sense a true fondness for her father, how the comparison had warmed her heart. But she had to focus now.

After killing Abdul, she’d been swamped by the magnitude of her actions. She wanted to crawl out of her own body, shut down and forget what she’d done. Yet, at this moment, pointing a loaded gun at the closed door, she felt empty, bereft even. Over time, she’d managed to internalise, truly believe what Sir had tried so hard to instil within her when he’d been transforming her. Training had been gruelling, what with its requirements and the time crunch they had been on but now, she was grateful for the fact that she had been under such intense pressure. It had made sure the discipline, the right attitude had taken root completely - no room for the faint hearted tender Sehmat, not anymore.

Murdering Abdul had been _torture_ , yet she couldn’t deny the overwhelming relief she’d felt when the news of his death at the hospital came in. Then came the moment when Munira’s husband had looked her in the eye, asking her about the key. She’d sworn in that moment that he knew something, and she recalled the dread that clutched at her heart, the way her throat seemed to close up and the struggle to form a coherent sentence. Somehow, she maintained a strong front, but she knew that the doubt hadn’t been extinguished, not entirely.

Abdul’s memory haunted her and when Mehboob had brought him up once more, doubt in every syllable, she couldn’t quite meet his inquisitive gaze. The knowledge that she was morphing into someone new was re enforced when she’d begun to search for the small bottle of poison. Her hand had sought it out deliberately, with steadfast conviction. There was no scope for shock or revulsion at the magnitude of the impact of this route, this _choice_. Sehmat had looked on in abject horror when Sir had spoken so casually of stopping someone’s heart that way, when he’d taken her through the procedure. Yet that day, she’d done the needful with the precision of someone who’d done it countless times before. She’d stood on that staircase, waiting for him as a lion would its prey, a smaller cat, for instance. She’d stumbled, stabbed and strode off. Three steps, efficient and cold.

In spite of all this, her heart broke, and she wept for a young widow, a bereaved father, a lonely brother. Their grief was genuine, and it wasn’t difficult for her to join in, to pretend she truly felt the same. Because the part of her that remained untouched by all this was still alive and emerged at times like this, when her guard was down.

But it was the next day when she experienced the true, lasting impact of Mehboob Syed’s death. It was in the heavy silence that had cast a shadow in each and every corner of the house, the devastation on the faces of his loved ones. Iqbal’s stumbling over his words, the momentary lapse, the awkward pause. Her father in law’s breakdown, which she’d attended to half-heartedly. That was manageable, one couldn’t fault her for not knowing what to say. Even then, she’d stolen a glance at his desk, the papers with red lines on them, giving her ample ammunition. Before Abdul, as she’d come to refer to the incident in her head, she would have been aghast at her own actions, her manipulative behaviour. She would’ve devoted all her focus in that moment on a heartbroken father. Yet, her heart had been hardened, her gaze searching for something else, calculating and sharp. It had proved fruitful then, but she remembered thinking, somewhen deep down, that this could’ve been avoided, the loss of all these people. The modus operandi of a spy came to her as easy as breathing and she had no choice but to embrace the same, for there was no other choice, no two ways about it.

She could recall looking into her mentor’s eyes and hoping to never become the person she saw there. The coldness there, the indifference had shaken her but now, Sehmat regretted not adopting his mannerisms, his techniques earlier. The circumstances had honed her, instead of vicarious learning. She shouldn’t have waited for the former. For the storm to reach her doorstep, cross the threshold and take hold of her soul. Perhaps then, this wouldn’t have shattered the remains of her heart, or what was left of it.

At the end of it all, the crux of this mission came to the way she and Iqbal interacted with one another. A rogue tear slipped out and trailed down her cheek and she let it go – it was only natural to weep a little, after all. As she stood there, gun in hand, pointed at the still closed door, she remembered the first time she’d seen Iqbal, in a photo during her briefing about the Syeds. Even then, she couldn’t deny that her heart had skipped a beat, her breath hitching just a little. There had been no denying that the man was handsome, and it became increasingly difficult to put that aside as she embarked on this complex journey.

When she’d gotten intimate with Iqbal, it had been entirely out of choice, a conscious decision. There was absolutely nothing deceptive about the act, on her end. It was useless to think that she hadn’t begun to fall in love with him that night. Or had the freefall begun earlier than she could recognise? In some ways, she should have been ready for how easily he could disarm her. With his kindness, consideration and affection. The last of those was easy to discern and at the beginning of all this, she remembered feeling guilty for toying with his heart, if only for the mission and she’d managed to absolve herself of the same. Now, though, try as she might to bat it away, it clawed at her, ripping her heart to shreds.

Why was her hand refusing to remain steady? Sehmat shut her eyes, trying to focus on her racing heartbeat. In her mind’s eye, she saw her country’s flag, aloft and proud. Filled with resolve, inspired by the glorious vision, she opened her eyes once more. The tremor had stopped now, and she kept her gaze fixed on the barricade of a door. The sound of a lock being turned echoed through the silent room. Sehmat made sure the safety mode of the handgun hadn’t been enabled and lifted her right hand, resting it below the left, ready to shoot. The additional support helped her remain steadfast, focused on her objective.

The doors were pulled open with extreme force, rattling the frame and she flinched. She watched as Iqbal froze, taking her, the gun in and she saw comprehension dawn in those beautiful, tear filled eyes. In that moment, she realised this: that expression was his greatest ammunition and it broke her. Still, she couldn’t risk lowering her only weapon, her only means of defence against a man she’d given this much anguish. The disbelief, the gut-wrenching pain on his face brought tears to her eyes and she hoped that this show of genuine emotion on her part would be enough to convince him. Yet, he wouldn’t believe this truth and really, what was it? Where could she establish a divide between choice and compulsion?

Instead, she took the easier route. Not that it was any less painstaking to utter. Saying those three words in a moment like this would be too much and too little, all at once. The questions he'd ask would differ on the basis of her response and Sehmat couldn’t deny that the shift of emphasis would sting her.

“Kabhi koi sach bhi tha hamare darmiyaan?”

“Maine chaaha nahin tha ki aisa ho, par yeh sab hota chala gaya..”

What hadn’t she intended to happen? The deaths? Their falling in love with one another? Was she the puppet or the puppeteer? Even now, the strings to her heart were in Iqbal’s gentle, loving hands and the next question was a painful tug, pulling her up short.

“Kuch bhi sach tha Sehmat?”

His gaze was imploring her to tell the truth and she knew what the words were, they danced on the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t one sided. She knew then that she held the strings to his heart too and spoke accordingly.

“Watan ke aage kuch nahi. Khud bhi nahi.”


End file.
